


A beautiful love story

by ViggyNiggy



Category: Handsome Devil (2016)
Genre: Canon Queer Characters, Epilogue, Fluff, Homophobic Language, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-22 16:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11971398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViggyNiggy/pseuds/ViggyNiggy
Summary: Not all beautiful love stories were tragic, and not all tragic love stories were beautiful. Mine and Conor's wasn't even a love story to begin with.





	1. Absolute Beginners -Prologue

Not all beautiful love stories were tragic, and not all tragic love stories were beautiful. Mine and Conor's wasn't even a love story to begin with.

Now, one would expect me to be happy out of my bloody mind after that legendary rugby match had softened Mr. Curly's heart enough to generously allow me to come back to study and live at a place that I so desperately wanted to escape until I didn't anymore. Much like all pubescent boys, I changed my mind in a matter of seconds however, and we were right back where we started.  
Outing Conor again wouldn't have the desired effect anymore, so what else could I possibly do to get myself expelled?

It wasn't a plan, more like a teeny little droplet of hope that was evaporating on the hot boulder that was the impending A-Levels.

A beautiful love story would have been able to distract me from the sheer endless stacks of worksheets and scribbled down summaries that were piling on and next to my desk. Not a beautiful love story. /The/ beautiful love story everyone was expecting after that grandiloquently won match. Perhaps not everyone. Perhaps noone but me.

It had been Weasel's obnoxiously smelling breath that had pulled me right out of that Jane Austen kind of unrealistically romantic bubble of ease -that I'd instantly entered once Conor Masters' arms had enveloped me- right as his victory yell fractured my ear drum.

And what awaited me was reality, a reality that found it necessary that, after everything, I was degraded to being the team's mascot as opposed to the star player's arm candy. A big honour nevertheless, or so everyone said.

Yet again, everyone was a mass that conveniently excluded me.

People weren't bothered that I was horrendous at that task, as long as Conor was continuously winning games for them, which, of course, he did.

That, however, didn't stop them from calling me names. Interestingly enough the term homo has shifted to being somewhat affectionate and therefore not appropriate for anyone but Conor, whereas I was called anything between faggot and bum bandit.

It was somewhat refreshing to notice that neither the people nor my everyday life had changed profoundly.

School still sucked, I was still a mediocre guitar player and Conor still wasn't a man of many words.

Well, my everyday life hadn't changed much apart from the little word best that snuck in front of mate the other day, when my roommate was talking about me to his mother after a match.

Our friendship had indeed grown exponentially after everything had normalised again. Little surprise that Conor soon knew the type of cheap poundshop hairdye I used and even littler surprise that I soon knew that Conor was the least qualified person to be trusted to apply that exact cheap poundshop hairdye to my head. The supposedly blonde patch of hair turned out greenish – it didn't bring out the green in my eyes like that twat insisted it did.

When eventually he apologised, it wasn't for that particular incident. I was left startled, with a sheepish expression on my face when he went all silent and serious.

“I'm sorry for making you enter that stage alone, Ned”, he'd said, gaze dropping to his feet. And for once, a nod on my side seemed more fitting than a snide comment.

He looked up, our eyes met, he smiled and I smiled and really I shouldn't have been surprised when some rugby player burst in to fetch Conor for practise. I didn't know his name, but I did know that he had a talent for ruining the moment.

When after two and a half hours, my best friend entered the room again, he found a frankly shittily made crown of daisies on his bed. I answered his questioning look with “Surely you didn't expect me to be the only one walking around with lawn clippings on my head, did you, lad?”

 

 

 


	2. Let's dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bowie songs make for great chapter titles

Rugby players weren't good dancers and that was a law of nature. Their brawny build made them clumsy and somewhat stiff in movement, two attributes that didn't exactly facilitate the act of dancing. Nothing about rugby included gentle touches, or a non-violent behaviour towards the opposing team in general.

I wouldn't have observed that so closely during the last practice that I chose to watch, if it weren't for that obligatory dancing course every student of the graduating class had to participate in.

As coincidence wants it, the school whose students would take the course with us were the girls from that exact college I embarrassed myself in front of with my guitar and the shaky singing voice.

“There's absolutely no way I'm doing this.” Ironically enough, I was neither good at rugby, nor dancing.

“Ned.” Conor wasn't fond of my chronic complaining.

“Forget it, Conor, I'm not doing it. Believe it or not, but there's a last bit of dignity that I'd like to keep.” Chronic complaining on top of chronic dramatising.

“Ned.” There was now a hint of annoyance audible in my friend's voice.

I ended up going anyway, but not without an ostentatious aversion present on my face all throughout the bus ride.

Many of my classmates' girlfriends were attendees as well, so the picking of a partner was rather easy for those, which didn't help me in the slightest. The handful of boys and girls left standing, rubbing their arms vigorously was the epitome of teenage awkwardness and I, not really surprisingly, was part of it.

Plenty of the girls were eyeing Conor with that certain glint of hope shining through, that maybe, maybe he'd be the one to ask them. I wasn't surprised and surely noone else was, since he was quite obviously the most handsome looking chap of the bunch. His very own eyes wandered back and forth between a girl with a blonde bob and one with hair that resembled the colour of mine. Upon studying her for a minute or two, he turned his head, just slightly, in my direction.

“I'm not going to end up taking a girl to the dance anyway.”

“You should know that I'm a horrendous dancer.”  
“A risk I'm willing to take.” He was facing me at this point, a tiny smirk gracing upon those inexplicable lips.

“I won't hesitate to step on your feet.”

“Alright.”

It shouldn't have been as taken aback at how ridiculously good a dancer Conor was. After all, the lad was unfairly talented at most everything he did. Despite my lack of any body coordination we weren't among the worst dancers in the room. Conor's touch on my hip was light, and tender almost.

The first dance we were taught was the cha-cha-cha, because it was supposedly easy to do. I disagreed and fell maybe once or twice, graciously, of course. Granted, it wasn't too bad altogether. I wouldn't go as far as to say that I genuinely enjoyed the hip swaying and the spinning, but I came pretty darn close to it. Hard not to, when dancing with someone -who didn't often look quintessentially happy- smiling like he felt utterly free in that very moment, too long hair turning into a halo of fawn at every fluid movement.

“Let's walk”, I proposed after what didn't seem like the two hours it had been. It was about ten miles back to the boarding school, no way we would make it before our curfew. Instead of an answer, Conor walked past the bus that would take all the others back.

The last days of summer had passed a while ago and it was a chilly autumn evening. The way the leaves fell from the trees, highlighted by the woozy light of the street lamps, might have been beautiful to watch, romantic almost, if my sweat soaked shirt wasn't clinging to my body as uncomfortably as it did. Reaching into my pocket I pulled out a swatted box of cigarettes and a lighter. It was my last one.

“Man, I'm knackered. Hardly noticed it before but dancing is physically straining.” Exhaling, I blew some smoke into the cold Irish air, watching it diffuse and later disappear. Holding out the cigarette, I looked up at Conor. He took it wordlessly. What a lucky coincidence that he didn't talk much and I found it hard to stop sometimes.

“My father will come to the graduation”, Conor said after a while and handed me the smoke back. “And the dance, too.”

Brilliant. Conor's father was a huge wanker whom I had absolutely no ounce of respect for. However, I more than anyone knew just how difficult it was to stop caring about parents' approval.

“Conor, wait.” I stopped, grabbing a hold of his arm to stop him as well. “Let's show him who you are. If you dare. And if he doesn't like that, a, he can fuck off, and b, we can't do much about it so why not do it with a bang?”

My cigarette dropped from my hand and landed in a puddle with a pathetic hiss as I found myself in a tight, spontaneous hug that didn't last long enough for me to reciprocate.

We walked the rest of the ten miles in silence, but it was a comfortable one. He seemed closer now, as if he had intentionally moved in a little.

Back in our room, I spoke up again. “I'm taking a shower.” And already halfway out of the door I looked back and said: “Best friend or not, that was the last time I shared a cigarette with you. Geez you are a wet smoker.”  
The smile I left with wouldn't disappear again until I fell asleep that night.

 

 

 


	3. Little wonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upon request, I had a try at a chapter written from Conor's perspective. Hope I succeeded  
> Enjoy!

Conor:  
  
I lay awake that night, without the intention of sleeping. I wouldn't have been able to anyway. The hours passed as I stared at the ceiling, thoughts too fleeting for me to grasp. I turned and there he was, in my blurred line of vision; Ned Roche.  
It wasn't necessary for me to be able to make out his features clearly in order to study them. The way he lay there- only partially covered by the blanket, one foot dangling in the air. 

As he moved, the blanket slipped even further and eventually dropped to the floor, the sudden cold drawing a groan. The urge to get up and drape it back over the sleeping boy grew, but I didn't. My eyes lingered on the sleeping figure, arms now wound around the middle in an attempt to keep warm.

It was this iron will to not let others get to him, to not let words break him, that had initially drawn me to the boy with the flaming red hair. That, and his inability to change who he was, conceal it, even, in order to fit in. Noone knew better than me how brave one had to be to openly accept one's nature, especially when everyone else was doing the exact opposite.  
Nothing screamed fighter like that scrawny Irish lad, standing in a crowd of sheep-as Mr. Sherry would say- with his arms crossed, fully aware of the consequences it could have for him. I'd always envied how difficult Ned made it for people to tie him down, force him to do just about anything.

Nothing screamed fighter like a boy whose walls were almost as high up as mine were, apologising in order to get me to play for a team that wasn't his.

I was almost a whole head taller than him, yet I looked up to him in many aspects. Of course he had won that essay thing, I hadn't been surprised. Never had I met someone who was so effortlessly smart, had witty responses on his lips at all times.

He looked so fragile now. So vulnerable.

My gaze dropped to my hands, one of which had held Ned's own just a few hours previous. It had been cold, slightly sweaty. Smaller than mine, almost feminine. Ink stains embedded in the pale skin, due to a leaking pen.

Artist's hands.

Ned had once told me about 'art people'. A certain kind of person that didn't create art -not necessarily- but rather felt it. Embodied it. He'd looked so happy explaining the concept to me, of a human so unique that they no longer were just human, but something more. Something more elevated than that. David Bowie had been his example and I can't say I fully understood what he'd meant then, but I did right in that moment, when I looked at my very own hands, barely remembering how the touch felt, but the picture of Ned's ink stained hands vivid before my eyes.

After the three hours that I did sleep, the last thing I wanted to do was get up and ready for another day of lessons that were the opposite of fun now that the a-levels were around the corner.

“You slept through breakfast.” Ned. The sun was too bright, his voice too chipper.

“What?”

“Breakfast. You missed it.” The guy was fully dressed already and looked well rested. Probably felt like it, too. I didn't.

“Why didn't you-”  
“Wake you? Tried it. Impossible. You know what they say, let the sleeping dogs lie. Now. Shirt, jumper, trousers. Go. You have five minutes.”

If it weren't for my rugby playing, I wouldn't have caught the articles of clothing flying my way. I didn't bother with turning away and simply pulled off the tshirt I wore to sleep, in order to swiftly pull on the school uniform. When I looked up again, Ned was blinking a few times, and shook his head, ever so slightly.

“The-the second period's free, I suggest you brush your teeth and take a shower then.” He paused. “Chewing gum?”

I accepted wordlessly and allowed Ned to drag me out of our room and towards the classroom. Judging by the looks of the other pupils, I must have looked rather rough, with my uncombed hair and the shirt only messily tucked into the trousers.

“Had fun last night?”, someone asked.

My mind being too foggy to answer still, I was more than thankful when Ned answered for me.  
“It's draughty in our room. Thank God I'm a heavy sleeper or else I would've woken up from it as well. Now go right ahead and shut your cakehole.”

There it was again, that smile. Innocent. But reserved for moments like that entirely.

The lesson wouldn't and wouldn't pass. Listening was out of question for me, as I was busy forcing my eyes to stay open.

Thankfully, the shower I took in the free period helped a lot, as did the energy drink a fellow rugby player shoved into my hand as I passed the common room. Ned, as always, could be found with his head buried in a book as I entered our room again. Bowie was playing, how fitting.

'Little wonder', he was singing.

“Back with us living people, Conor?”, Ned asked when he noticed me, again a smile on his lips, but an entirely different kind.

'Oh little wonder, you.' 

**Author's Note:**

> After watching Handsome Devil I (as most) instantly looked up fanfiction and was both baffled and saddened about the lack of it. So here I am, writing the fanfiction I was hoping to find when I finished the movie.  
> I hope you enjoy it!


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